the sacrament of the poet

many bemused even doleful people
say that poet is priest or poet
is caretaker of some self-chosen
intrepid transparency such as
green, green seaweed beds; something
blown fully with startlingly exploited gas—
calling attention to themselves—
the real poet’s sacrament is not holy
holy, holy or a contention aimed at holiness
but a struggle of manuscripts through
the mail or over the web—it’s a struggle
of self-belief despite all the belts
the snaps and the trammel hooks
it’s a struggle of maintaining
the will to figure out how much
can be done daily to ensnare
future successes; the poet’s blood’s
not found in the leaves’ widening spell
or those woods or this river—
it’s a long struggle kept long
all angular and tainted with lingering bitterness

David Spiering